


Returned

by Omimouse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Healing, Multi, Nemeton, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Past Abuse, Past Braeden/Derek Hale, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Rape/Non-con, Post Season 4 AU, Post-Nogitsune, Puppy Piles, Scott McCall is a Good Alpha, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omimouse/pseuds/Omimouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When much is taken, something is returned.” <br/>Terry Pratchett, Nation</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is both my first Teen Wolf fic, and my first fanfic in *any* fandom. (As in, I'm currently looking up how to do italics in this format. Erm.) This diverges from canon pretty much right at the end of season 4 - Braeden and Derek parted amicably because she had a Desert Wolf to catch/kill, and Derek just didn't feel right leaving a pack of teenagers to deal with the mess that is Beacon Hills by themselves.
> 
> Unbetated like whoa, and I'm crossing my fingers that spellcheck actually caught everything. Chapters are very likely to vary in length by a lot. Please let me know if I'm missing tags you think should be added.
> 
> (Rating is for later chapters.)

It had been a long day, and an even longer night. The pack limped out of the Preserve, the remains of twisted dryad behind; rotting mulch and blackened leaves the only traces of her existence. For once, Derek had been the one to try and find a peaceful solution, explaining that this nymph had once been a friend of the Hale pack, albeit a very shy one. He had pleaded with her even as he fought the roots that tried to drag him underground. He tried to remind her of full moons where she had overcome her shyness enough to shelter the youngest of the pack under her tree as they piled together in content exhaustion. He begged, cried, screamed at the pack to give him just a little more time to get through to her.

In the end, Stiles and Lydia set fire to her tree when she choked Derek into unconsciousness. He woke to the smell of burning wood, and the sound of high-pitched screams. The ensuing screaming match between him, Stiles, and Lydia was only ended by Scott's roar, and that just put an end to the yelling. Derek stayed with the pack until they dragged themselves to their parked cars, then shed clothing and human form.

He ran through the woods on four feet, ignoring raised voices behind him. He only vaguely heard Scott's, “Let him go; there's pretty much nothing we can really do for him if he doesn't wanna be around us right now” and pushed himself harder, not wanting to hear Stiles' indignance or Lydia's clipped and tight voice. Derek ran, not really focusing on where he was going until he reached the rubble that was all the county had left of the Hale house. Muzzle turned to the sky, he howled his rage, loss, despair and pain for another friend lost. Even angry, he was forced to admit that she had been beyond saving, twisted by the taint that still lingered in the forest, and that just made it worse.

He had thought he was past the crushing guilt over his involvement in the fire. He was seeing a therapist, he was working through his issues. And all of it slipped away with the reminder that it wasn't just his pack he'd killed; it was everyone that had paid, everyone that was still paying, for the loss of Talia Hale's influence and protection. Without the fire, Peter would never have become alpha. Scott wouldn't have been bitten, there would have been no kanima born from Derek's need to build a pack. Deucalion would never have dared try to recruit Talia, and Jennifer would have likely avoided a territory held by so strong an alpha. Erica and Boyd would be alive, not dead before they could drive. Scott, Stiles, and Allison would never have needed to sacrifice themselves, and Stiles would have had no door in his mind to let a shadow fox in. Peter wouldn't have lain next to Meredith in a hospital ward, screaming his madness and plans to wipe out the supernatural population of Beacon Hills into her mind.

So he howled his grief and his guilt, the loneliness that still crept up on him at night as he curled up on himself in a bed too large for one person. He howled until his throat was hoarse, even werewolf healing unable to keep up. Voice spent, Derek crept back to the the still smoking remnants of the dryad's tree. He tucked himself into the roots of a nearby tree, as close to hers as he could get, nose hidden under tail, and fell asleep struggling to remember her voice singing lullabies to the Hale children, instead of screaming in agony.

Deeper in the Preserve, the lingering echoes of his howls washed over a tree stump. It shivered slightly, its roots shifting restlessly, as if in agitation. The shivering grew stronger, until the entire stump was vibration, roots writhing as they ripped themselves from the ground. Cracks began to form along the top and around the trunk, until finally it split apart violently, bark and chunks of dead wood flung with enough force that they embedded themselves into the trees that ringed the clearing.

A small sapling rose in the stump's place, surrounded by a barely perceptible golden glow. In the smoldering remains of the dryad's grove, Derek Hale tossed in fitful sleep as soft light enfolded him. Slowly, he fell into more easy sleep as the light sank into him, and behind tightly closed eyelids, blue shifted to gold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm trying to have the different PoVs have a different 'voice'? Because different people process/react/think differently?
> 
> I just can't tell if it's overly jarring or not. (Insert authorial plea for feedback here.)

It probably said something about his life that Stiles' reaction to waking up to the sound of his window being pushed up was not to dive out of bed for his bat, but to groan and drag a pillow over his head.

“If you're here to yell at me some more about last night, you can back flip right the fuck back out of that win- _holy shit_.”

Derek dropped Stiles' pillow shield onto the floor from where he'd (rudely!) yanked it off the younger man's face. He should probably be saying something about that, Stiles noted distantly, but his brain functions were mostly being diverted to processing the fact that, while Derek climbing through his window wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, the sweat-covered and dirt-streaked parts were. 

Also, he'd have remembered it if Derek normally visited him _bare fucking ass naked_.

“Stiles.”

The note of barely controlled panic yanked Stiles' focus back up to Derek's face, and he promptly forgot about the lack of clothes.

“Your eyes, oh fuck, don't tell me you're turning human again. Because I really don't think any of us can handle you”, _propped up against a low stone wall, struggling to breathe, choking on his own blood_ , “ . . . catching a cold or some shit like that and probably not knowing what to do when you're sick because you've never been sick before, or getting arrested because you can't outrun things like cops who are going to respond to calls about a _naked man, put some fucking clothes on_.”

There were a few beats of silence as Derek's face shifted from 'trying not to show pants-shitting levels of fear' to 'wtf, Stiles'.

Stiles waited a few seconds more for Derek to show any signs of moving towards the dresser, before he gave up on waiting for the other man to develop things like a sense of modesty and just threw his blankets over the werewolf's head. Rolling out the other side of his bed, he mournfully waved goodbye at any hope of getting back to sleep that night. Behind him, Derek's face switched his vocal chords to the 'on' position.

“Stiles, what the _fuck_?”

Ignoring him for the moment, Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair as he left his bedroom to stumble down the hallway to his dad's bedroom door. Making a beeline for his dad's dresser, he didn't even turn around at the muzzy 'Stiles?” from the general direction of the bed.

“Just grabbing a pair of sweats and a shirt for our resident werewolf nudist. Go back to sleep; I'll leave a note or something if we have to go to Deaton's, and I promise to actually wake you up if we have to haul our asses back down to Mexico again.”

The ensuing silence gave Stiles the general impression that his dad was not, in fact, going back to sleep.

“So, Derek Hale is in your bedroom. Without clothes. And possibly needing to go to Deaton's, but you don't know for certain yet.” A few seconds of the kind of silence that made Stiles cringe as he waited for his dad to finish carefully considering the evidence. “If you have to go someplace more than a few hours' drive, whether you leave the state or not, wake me because I'll be the one driving. Otherwise, I'm going to go back to sleep and pretend you aren't digging through my clothing because Derek Hale is in your room _without clothing of his own_ , and you will not say one word tomorrow about the bacon I intend to have.”

“It could be Scott. Or Liam.” Even Stiles could hear the petulance in his voice.

“Son, they both actually fit into your clothing. Which Derek does not, “ and here his dad's voice raised slightly, “and will not be doing so in this house, am I clear?”

Briefly, Stiles wondered if some obscure sartorial monster could be coaxed into exploding from his father's dresser and give him an exit from this entire situation. When the sweatpants he was holding failed to display evil intent, he shoved the drawer closed with a touch more force than was strictly necessary and got the hell out of his dad's room before he could say something else that would make this night more mortifying than it already was.  


Back in his room, Derek had wrapped himself in the blankets from the neck down, and was sitting ramrod straight in one of the desk chairs with a facial expression better suited to a man headed for the gallows. Stiles' fingers twisted the fabric in his hands as he considered just how true that might be, if Derek was actually de-powering again. Shoving that train of thought aside to panic over later, he threw the shirt and pants in Derek's general direction.

“Here. Put those on so we can start figuring out the latest fuckery. We'll have to wake up my dad if we're wind up needing to drive across the state or something, and we're both going to pretend that he didn't say anything else. Because he didn't. So there's nothing to pretend, even, because he _did not say anything else_.”

Derek turned his head slightly to glare at Stiles and then pulled the clothing into the blanket cocoon with him. A minute later, he emerged wearing the pants and pulling the shirt over his head. Clothing on, he dropped back in the chair, hunching forward slightly with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together so tightly that they were turning white.

“So, your eyes are yellow. Again. Do you still have the rest of it, or?” 

Exhaling heavily, Derek raised his hands and flexed them as he popped his claws. With his customary neck-twist (Stiles really needed to find out why Derek did that, because none of the other wolves did.) his face rearranged itself into the beta-shift. Holding his arm out so Stiles could easily see, he then ran one claw along his forearm. They both watched it heal. Stiles noted that it looked like it was healing at about 'normal' rate, instead of immediately the way it had when they'd first dragged a teenaged Derek into Deaton's office. After a few moments, he shifted back to fully human, breathed in like he was getting ready to dive, and started speaking.

“I ran here as a wolf, so at least as of ten minutes ago, I still had the full shift. And before you ask, no, I didn't run into any witches, warlocks, strange variants of wolfsbane, oddly coloured mushrooms or flowers, mistletoe, or anything out of ordinary at all last night. At least, nothing after the uhm, the fight. I went to sleep as a wolf, and didn't even realize my eyes had changed until I saw my reflection in my back window – because I was getting clothing out of my car, Stiles – and . . . I panicked, shifted back to wolf because I wanted to make sure I still could, and then I came here, because your bullshit is still bullshit, but unlike Deaton's, it's straightforward bullshit.”

Derek takes another deep breath, focusing his eyes on his hands as he starts nervously popping his claws in and out, one finger at a time, like he's afraid that if he looks away, he'll be left with soft human nails.

“And . . . and because I owe you an apology. Well, you and Lydia both. Actually, the whole pack. You saved my life last night, and I shouldn't have yelled at you like that for it. It's not,” another shuddering breath as his hands briefly clenched tightly enough to leave small pinpricks of blood, “ it's not, not your fault, you didn't . . . you didn't b-burn her tree on a whim; I _get_ that, okay? Yes, I was hurt and angry and upset, but that doesn't mean I get to lash out at my _pack_. So, thank you, thank you for saving my life, _again_ , and I'm sorry for exploding at you for it.”

Stiles really hopes his utter shock and surprise isn't showing on his face right now, because after the amount of obvious effort it took for Derek to say all that, he doesn't deserve that kind of reaction. Still, though. Even for all the progress Derek's been making on letting go of his anger, this is kind of a Big Deal.

“I'm sorry we couldn't save your friend.” He kind of wants to smack himself for how weak a response that seems, but Derek just nods shakily and keeps staring at his hands.

Grabbing the other desk chair, Stiles starts to sit down in front of his computer, already mentally running through keywords to search for in the still-hopelessly-unorganized mess that is the Bestiary and what he and Lydia have managed to enter so far (they still have enough to go through that Stiles wonders if they'll be doing anything non-supernatural that isn't school for the next _year_ ) from the stack Chris Argent dropped off with them before leaving town, the notes from Peter's laptop and what was left of the Hale library, and every piece of information they've managed to extract from Deaton. He bumps his knee into Derek's as he settles into his chair, and then - 

“What the _actual fucking hell?_ ”

Golden light flares where their knees are touching, spreading over Stiles until he is glowing, then fading into his skin.

“Stiles, _Stiles_.”

“You saw that? What the _fuck_ was that, wait, okay, I think we know what happened to your eyes now, but what the _fucking_ mmph.”

His freak-out is interrupted by Derek clamping a hand over his mouth. Outraged, Stiles tries to jerk his head back, but Derek shifts his hand so he's holding Stiles by the jaw instead. He's staring into Stiles' eyes with a shocked expression.

“Derek? Derek, dude, are you absolutely _sure_ you didn't trip through some weird shit, because you are seriously freaking me out here, and considering the little light show, that is saying someth- wait, what are you doing?”

What Derek is doing, apparently, is dragging Stiles out of the room towards the upstairs bathroom, without letting go of his face. He shoulders through the door, and plants Stiles in front of the mirror.

“ _Look_.”

There are a thousand jokes about shaving, personal hygiene, or maybe vanity that Stiles would normally love to make, but he can't think of a single one as he stares into the glowing orange eyes looking back at him from the mirror.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm still on the fence about what kind of relationship Stiles and Malia have had in this particular universe. On the one hand, I really think Malia as a character has all this amazing potential, especially with the backstory they set her up with. I also feel like they kinda rammed her in as a romantic option, which did her a pretty huge disservice. (And that isn't even going into how uncomfortable the scene in Eichen House made me.)
> 
> Right now, I'm trying to just see where this goes, I guess. I'm leaning pretty heavily towards the idea that Stiles is a very important person in her life, and no matter what the show tries to dodge around, it would be incredibly skeevy of Stiles to jump into a romantic and sexual relationship with someone who was *eight* the last time they were human, and who is still struggling to learn how to *be* human. I mean, nevermind the potential maturity differences; she's pretty much reliant on the pack for a most if not all of not only her emotional and mental health, but also for help navigating what must be a very confusing world for her. That's a pretty heft power imbalance right there.
> 
> And at the same time, I don't want to fall into the trap of ignoring canon relationships because they don't fit my ships.

The Stilinski living room is really not big enough for how many people are currently crammed into it, even with spillover seating at the kitchen table. Lydia and Stiles are squashed together on the floor with a laptop on the coffee table, voices getting increasingly snippy. No one tries to intervene; Liam's still hiding in the kitchen with Malia from the verbal barrage that they launched at him when he suggested that they might work better if they weren't at each others' throats.

The entire house is filled with radiant golden light.

John, being in the house, had been the first to react to his son's panicked yelling, running down the hallway and barely catching himself on the bathroom door frame. Derek and Stiles had both reached out without thinking to keep him from falling, and the light had flared again, surrounding the Sheriff in a brilliant halo before fading. His eyes, however, remained unchanged. Derek had wound up calling Scott as John helped Stiles breathe through a panic attack. He'd barely been able to do more than say Scott's name before the alpha overheard Stiles counting his fingers over and over in the background. A growled, “I'll be right there” and five minutes of what must have been very hard running later, and Scott was in the house and pushing past Derek to get to Stiles.

At that point, Derek wasn't even surprised when the light made a reappearance.

Scott's eyes remained alpha red, and they decided they may as well just call the whole damned pack and save themselves retelling the same story over and over again. The Sheriff had started to raise the question of safety, considering the light appeared to be spreading by touch, which might have been a long discussion, if Liam hadn't called Scott, panicking because he was, “Glowing, Scott, _glowing_ , and . . and it stopped. Uhm. It just went away on its own?”

Every other pack member had woken up to the same thing, at what Stiles and Lydia had judged to be roughly the same time that Scott had been affected. As they had gathered at the house, the light had begun to return, gradually at first, and then Kira had walked into the living room and straight into Scott's arms. Stiles had (once everyone could see again) pronounced the ensuing, blinding flare a 'honest to fucking god _Disney movie_ moment, are you fucking _serious_?”

Thankfully, the light was now back down to reasonable levels. The noise level, however, was rising. Rapidly.

Sitting on the couch behind Stiles and Lydia, so he can read over their shoulders, Derek is trying very hard to not wince every time someone gets louder in an effort to be heard. He's giving serious consideration to asking the Sheriff if he has any of those foam ear-plugs for the firing range, rudeness be damned, when the man in question raises his own voice above the rest.

“Okay, _enough_. There is no way in hell any of you are actually managing to talk like this – that includes you and Lydia, Stiles – so if you could all please bring it down to at least below potential noise-complaint levels, I would really appreciate it.”

In the ensuing silence, Derek spares a very private and slightly guilty – because he really is proud of the alpha Scott is becoming – thought to wish that Peter had bitten John instead.

Scott's phone chimes, announcing a new text message. Relief floods his face as he reads. “Deaton's on his way over.” Several more chimes sound off in rapid succession, and Scott frowns slightly. “And he's being very insistent that we not leave the house.”

His seat directly behind Stiles means Derek doesn't miss the way he flinches slightly, or the way his eyes flit back down to his left hand, resting seemingly carelessly in easy view on the coffee table in front of him, fingers splayed wide. He grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists, feeling completely helpless in the face of Stiles' very obvious fear. Derek is already wishing this could have been the comparatively far easier problem to deal with of him becoming human again. His nose reminds him that he is still decidedly not human, as he struggles to breathe evenly through the overpowering acrid stench that is Stiles' current emotional state.

Scott is already making his way around the table, hunkering down to press himself against the other side of Stiles from Lydia. Derek feels a familiar ache as he watches Scott wrap an arm around his friend – his _brother_ – and pull him in close.

“It's not back, okay? You were right next to me when Isaac returned my text and said the box was still sealed. It's not back.”

Stiles is leaning heavily into Scott, breathing in a very even, careful, and precise rhythm. The glow in the room seems to pull in and concentrate on every place the two are touching. Lydia rests a hand on Stiles' shoulder to gently squeeze, fingers individually illuminated by candle-bright flares. Her voice is gentle as she repeats the same thing they've been telling Stiles since the panic attack on the bathroom floor.

“And why would a shadow fox use _light_ , anyway?”

The response is the same as it's been all night, “Because it would make for one hell of a trick.”

Conversations start back up again in low murmurs and quiet voices. Derek hears the sound of pots being moved around, and smells the distinct tang of heating metal as stove burners are turned on. The Sheriff pokes his head into the room long enough to ask if spaghetti sounds all right to everyone and catch Scott's eye long enough to gesture towards Derek with his head. Confused, Derek looks down at Scott as soon as John is back in the kitchen.

Scott responds by pushing the coffee table away from the couch with his legs. He calls Malia and Liam's names in a whisper, then rolls himself and Stiles onto the ground, shifting so they end up with Scott underneath and Stiles halfway on his chest.. The alpha then hooks a foot around one of Derek's ankles, and tugs. Lydia is already settling in on one side, and Kira is curling herself around Scott's head, tucking herself so that Lydia's head is pillowed by one of Kira's legs. Derek hesitates, unsure of where he's supposed to fit himself.

Malia solves his dilemma by the simple expedient of dragging him off the couch and arranging him until he's curled around Scott's other side, his head resting on the alpha's shoulder and one arm across Stiles. Lydia wraps her own arm around so that she's loosely holding onto Derek's. Liam drapes himself over Scott's legs, dropping his head onto Derek's shins with wince-worthy 'thunk'. Once everyone's mostly stopped squirming, Malia carefully settles in on top of Stiles like a blanket.

Derek inhales the scent of _alphahomepack_ and has to close his eyes and just breathe against the flood of emotion. Scott curls the arm that Derek's half-lying on up and around him, pulling him in closer, until Derek's partially on his chest next to Stiles, with Kira's hair partially covering his face and Malia helping pull him in with an arm around his back and a leg around the backs of his knees. Stiles' face is right next to his, and when the younger man opens his eyes, they're glowing orange again.

He knows his own eyes are flashing in response, and when he feels more than hears Scott start up a contented rumbling growl, he cranes his neck to see red flashing through half-closed eyes. Turning his head, he meets Kira's glowing eyes, then twists his head back around when Malia gasps and burrows her head into Stiles' back with a choked-off sob. When she shifts slightly to meet his gaze, her eyes are tear-filled . . . and just as gold as his own.

Lydia's hand tightens on his arm, and he can hear the wonder in her voice.

“I don't know what this is, but I know it's something good."

Wrapped up safely with his pack, listening to Stiles breathe easier, watching his cousin cry tears of relief as she finally lets go of eight years of guilt and pain, feeling the ache in his heart ease to something more sweet than bitter, Derek can only wedge himself in closer and agree.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me that I have no clue what counts as 'slow burn'. Sooo, I'm not sure if I should add it as a tag now, wait a few chapters to see if these boys are going to move a little faster, or what.

Stiles had lost feeling in his legs, and the arm Derek was crushing into Scott's chest. Malia was squishing him. Lydia's bracelets were digging into his side where his shirt had ridden up. He felt like he'd been stuck in an oven, a nearly literal werewolf oven, even if there was nothing 'little' about it. He was starting to have some trouble breathing and he was pretty sure there was going to be a very awkward situation in his pants if Derek kept trying to wriggle in closer, and he really did _not_ want to get hard in the middle of a pile of people that would be able to smell it, never mind not being sure he would be able to look Scott in the eyes if he started poking him in the hip. 

This was the safest he'd felt since sophomore year, and he wanted to stay right here forever. He could just ignore needing to breathe, eat, drink, go to the bathroom, or jerk off, right?

He was still trying to figure out if never leaving the cuddle pile was worth giving up orgasms when the doorbell rang. Malia gave him one last rib-crushing squeeze before clambering off of him, to the sounds of grunts and 'oofs' as her knees and elbows found soft spots to dig. Lydia was next to start sitting up, and when her hand left Derek's arm, he released a cranky sounding growl as he lifted his head and gave her a half-hearted glare. She gave no sign of noticing it as her heels clacked away towards the front door. He heard it open, and then Deaton's voice was greeting Lydia.

Derek had dropped his head back down to Scott's chest, face inches away from Stiles'. Even with how much he'd been opening up and relaxing around the pack over the past two years, Stiles has never seen Derek look so unguarded. Even his eyebrows look all soft and happy, instead of like scrunched up sad caterpillars that have just been told all the butterfly positions have been filled for the year.

Stiles rewinds his train of thought and adds 'research pack cuddle time high' to his list of supernatural shit to look into.

Of course, it could also be a side-effect of whatever the hell this light is, since it seemed to be very concentrated on the cuddle pile.

Scott sighs, and starts gently pushing and nudging the pack members still snuggled up to and on him. Kira drops a kiss on his forehead, ruffles Stiles' hair, bumps her shoulder into Derek's as she pushes herself to her feet. Liam is next to extricate himself, simply rolling off of Scott's legs, and using the couch to pull himself up. Derek is next rolling himself to a seated position with his usual grace, heels planted under his ass. He rocks back slightly, and then stands straight up in one smooth movement.

A soft snort from the kitchen doorway makes Stiles look up to see his dad leaning against the frame.

“You know, I've seen the claws, the eyes, the healing, watched you guys track a scent through rain and listen to conversations through concrete walls. And yet, it's watching you do that,” he waves an arm at where Derek is standing, “ _That_ right there impresses me. And makes my knees and back jealous.” A timer goes off behind him, and he turns back into the kitchen.

The sound of Deaton clearing his throat behind him makes Stiles groan and start to haul himself to his feet. Derek takes a step forward, reaching out a hand that Stiles uses to pull himself up. He tries not to read anything more than pack closeness into the gentle squeeze Derek gives him before letting go of his hand. Scott, the great big show-off, does that little hopping kick maneuver that takes him from flat on his back to standing in the space of a few seconds. 

Deaton is standing to the side, carefully keeping as much distance between himself and any of the pack as he can in the limited space available to him. When Scott starts to step towards him, the vet holds a hand up.

“I'd prefer if you – all of you – try to avoid getting too close to anyone who hasn't been affected by this phenomenon until we have better idea of what's going on. Now, I need to know when you first became aware of it, who it first became evident with, and when this occurred.”

Stiles drops onto the couch with a low groan as he scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. As he starts to tug on it slightly, he's reminded of why he'd buzzed it in the first place. Scott sits down next to him, draping his arm back over Stiles' shoulder. Instead of sitting on his alpha's other side, Derek perches himself on the arm of the couch, directly next to Stiles. 

By now, they've become accustomed enough to the light gathering in intensity whenever pack members are close that they don't really react to it. Deaton, however, is studying them intently. His eyes flit rapidly between the three of them, lingering on where it's brightest. He pulls a steno pad and pen from a pocket in his jacket, flips it open, clicks the pen, and gives them an expectant look.

Derek is the first to begin speaking, basically repeating what he'd told Stiles after tumbling through his window. Stiles picks up when Derek reaches the point where the light jumped to Stiles, and then they call the Sheriff in for his version, moving to Scott when they get to him pushing past Derek. The rest of the pack chimes in with their experiences, describing the way their skin seemed to absorb the light into it.

Deaton focuses on Stiles. “Can you show me your eyes?”

Stiles digs his hands into his thighs, pulling at the fabric of the sleep pants he's still wearing. Scott squeezes his shoulder, and then Derek leans in until he's pressed up against Stiles. The shaky, sick fear that had been rising again fades away, and when he looks up at Deaton, he knows from the expression on the other man's face that his eyes are glowing.

“Have you tried to use mountain ash since your eyes changed?”

He shook his head, couldn't figure out how to say that he'd been doing his best to not think about that, because he didn't want to find he couldn't. Deaton's gives him a sympathetic smile, the pulls a small bottle from his jacket. He gestures Stiles forward as he unscrews the top. Scott and Derek don't seem particularly inclined to let him up until the vet raises a single eyebrow at them.

This time the light doesn't dissipate as Stiles moves away from the wolves. For just a moment, it flares almost painfully bright, then settles back into a gentle glow that surrounds Stiles. 

“Hold out your hands, please.”

Guessing at what Deaton is planning, Stiles stretches his cupped hands out, and holds his breath. The vet, still keeping s much distance as is possible, slowly tilts the bottle over them, watching intently as a small stream of black powder pours from the mouth.

It hits Stiles' palms with an almost disappointing lack of effect.

Stiles lets out the breath he'd been holding, sucking in the next one rapidly as he goes slightly dizzy with relief. He knows the involuntary giggle he releases is bordering on manic, but he really does not give a single fuck about that right now. All he can focus on is that he's still human, though . . .

He scoots away from both couch and Deaton, closes his eyes, focuses every bit of belief and willpower he has, backed by the secure _knowledge_ that this harmless looking black dust works, then tosses it into the air. It lands in a perfect, albeit very small, circle around him. He spins around, flailing his hands at the wolves on the couch.

“C'mere, one of you, wait, not Scott, he can punch through this stuff, Derek, you try and break it, ohman, I can't believe I got it to do the circle thingie.” He's nearly bouncing in place, giddy with relief – until Derek, who'd clearly been expecting resistance, falls slightly forward when he starts to push on what should have been a barrier and has to catch himself on Stiles' shoulders.

The glee he'd been feeling is gone immediately as his stomach gives a sickening lurch. Derek's looking just as shaken as he straightens himself back up, still gripping Stiles' shoulders almost bruisingly tight. He flashes his eyes, and Stiles manages to croak out, “Still yellow man; no True Alpha mojo here. Sorry.” 

Behind them, Deaton inhales sharply. “Stiles, look. Look at the circle.”

Where there once was a circle just big enough for Stiles to fit in, a perfect ring of mountain ash now encloses both him and Derek.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -waves at nice people with the comments and the kudos-
> 
> The chapter break feels kinda weird to me here, but it was the best place I could think of it. It probably has to so with me trying for a longer chapter this time.
> 
> (Also, I was wanting more fluff in here than this, and then the whole thing just decided it wanted a detour into angst.)
> 
> Edited - I managed to have a chunk get cut out, argh, hence the delete and repost. -headdesk-)

There's a moment of complete silence, and then everyone except Stiles and Derek starts trying to talk at once.

Derek doesn't even try to sort out what everyone's saying, focusing instead on the ash surrounding him and the way it feels.

Normally, being trapped by mountain ash feels very isolating. His senses aren't dulled by it, exactly, but there's always a distinct feeling of being apart from everything outside its borders. Derek's read through Argent's files; this property makes mountain ash even more attractive to hunters for trapping shifters that form social bonds, because it means those bonds can't be relied on to find each other. Right now, however, he can still easily feel every member of the pack.

Carefully, he sets one foot over the circle, then back in. The ash remains in place, not even a single grain shifting. Curious now, he crouches down and tries to scoop up a handful. _That_ produces the expected reaction – his hand stops right above the ash and no matter how he presses down, he cannot touch it.

Behind him, Stiles is twitching, his scent a mix of anxiety, curiosity, uncertainty, and a sharp note of arousal that Derek filters out almost automatically. Still, he stands back up with a slight step back, so that he lightly bumps into Stiles where the younger man is hovering half over him, just to hear his heartbeat spike. He tells himself that it's just to distract Stiles, get the sour note of worry out of his scent.

When he turns to catch Scott's attention, the alpha is watching them both with keen eyes.

From the look on Scott's face, there's going to be a conversation in his future. Resigning himself to the knowledge that said future is gong to hold a good deal of awkwardness, he waves Scott towards him, raising his voice so he can be heard. “You're the only other shifter in the room with as much personal experience with mountain ash; I want to know if you can feel this too.”

A slight frown tugs at Scott's face, but he gets up and obligingly steps forward into the circle, arguments cutting off as the pack trains their eyes on him. This time, Derek is watching the ash as Scott steps easily over it. For a moment, the air above it shimmers like a heat-wave, and just like that, the circle is big enough for Scott to stand next to Derek and Stiles. 

Scot's face creases more in concentration as the feel of his presence along the pack bonds briefly intensifies, then eases back down closer to normal levels. The ash shivers slightly when he tries to touch it, but doesn't move otherwise. His eyes flash red as he steps in and out of the circle at different points, focusing intently on the ash where he crosses it. When he lowers his hand in his own attempt to touch it, there's the same sense of building pressure as there had been just before Jennifer had been knocked to the ground by her circle's breaking. Scott pulls his hand back before the ash so much as twitches out of place.

“I believe we need to try something different.”

Deaton tosses his own circle of mountain ash around him and raises an eyebrow as if to say, 'well?'.

Derek glances sideways at Scott, who shrugs, and waves an arm forward. Being careful to not disturb Stiles' circle, Derek steps out and warily reaches towards Deaton. This time, the ash behaves exactly as it should, barrier coalescing in barely visible blue where his hand touches it. 

Deaton nods, as though this was exactly what he expected. He steps slightly to the side so he can catch Stiles' attention.

“I assume you still have the bag of mountain ash I gave you a few months ago?”

Stiles stares blankly at the vet for a second, then turns speeds out of the living room. Derek winces slightly as he hears him trying to take the stairs two at a time, mostly succeeding by virtue of what sounds like a flailing upwards fall. His bedroom door bounces off the wall, and then there's a lot of drawers being yanked and some fairly inventive swearing. Liam is staring at the ceiling with a faintly awed look.

A crow of victory is followed by Stiles hurling himself back down the stairs, forward momentum propelling him into the room. Clutched tightly to his chest is a gallon ziploc baggie that is mostly full of ash. He starts to hand it to Deaton, who shakes his head and points at Lydia.

Lydia digs a handful of ash out of the bag, and instead of throwing it into the air, she simply opens her fist and drops it directly in front of her. It forms into a perfect circle the instant it hits the floor. Slightly resigned at his current status of guinea pig, Derek doesn't even bother testing the air in front of her first, instead simply stepping directly over the ash to stand next to her. As it had with Stiles, the circle grows in size as he enters it.

“This doesn't make any sense.” Stiles' voice has that edge it gets when he runs into a research dead-end. He starts pacing, digging his hands into his hair and lightly tugging. “We can throw the circle, but it won't do the only thing it's _supposed_ to do?” He moves to where he can glare at his and Lydia's circles, as if he can get them to answer his questions. When nothing happens after a few moments, he flings his hands into the air with a short bark of frustration, then turns his glare to Deaton's circle. “It's the light, isn't it? I mean, what the hell else could it be? Because _your_ little circle kept Derek out just fine.” 

Stiles' scent is getting sharper as the words tumble out, heart rate spiking higher and higher. The light returns the second the word 'fine' leaves his mouth, flaring around Deaton. There's an almost inaudible pop, and then it dims back down to a soft glow. 

Deaton's circle is completely gone. 

************************* 

Stiles waits for the shouting to start right back up again, but thankfully, the pack's fucks are just as lost as his right now. 

He doesn't think he could handle it if the raised voices of his pack started getting mixed up in the screams he can still hear in his skull. 

Deaton, however, seems to be in possession of a great deal of fuck. 

The vet is trying to find any trace of the mountain ash that was his circle, and so far, hasn't found so much as a single grain. Everything about him screams utter disbelief with a side-order of stunned. Once he has assured himself that his circle hasn't just been broken, it's vanished entirely, he turns his focus towards Stiles. He shoves the horror show still trying to play in his head as far back as he can, struggling to not let any of it show on his face as Deaton starts speaking rapidly. 

“What were you thinking and feeling, just before the light flared? I need you to be as detailed as possible.” 

His eyes are filled with enough intensity that Stiles takes an involuntary step back, before catching himself. This is _Deaton_. He may be a cryptic bastard, but he's never been a threat to the pack, but . . . Stiles backs away from that train of thought before the images have a chance to come screaming back. 

“That your circle could still keep the wolves out. If Lydia and I can't keep the supernatural out with the ash anymore, then can we still break it? I was thinking the wolves could get trapped, and we wouldn't be able to get them out.” 

From the way Scott and Derek are side-eyeing him, Stiles is pretty sure his heart did something that said, 'skirting the truth'. Blessedly, they don't say anything about it, which means Stiles doesn't have to figure out how to tell them that he absolutely does not feel safe telling Deaton everything. 

“Is it accurate to say that you saw my ash circle as representative of a serious threat to your pack?” 

Chewing on his lip, Stiles nods as he struggles to put what he was feeling into words without giving too much away. “Kinda? I mean, maybe not your circle directly, I mean, you weren't trapping any of them, or putting them in danger by keeping them from something, or anything like that. It was just . . . the _idea_ that maybe we wouldn't be able to make it work right, that me and Lydia might not be able to help with the ash . .. it was all I could think about, and it scared me.” 

Deaton looks thoughtful as he makes rapid notes on his pad. “I think that's enough for tonight. We can work more on this tomorrow; I'm going to get in touch with Satomi and see if anything similar is happening with her pack. Until then, I suggest you all get some rest.” 

With that, he pockets his notes and exits the house. Liam starts to speak, but Lydia clamps a hand on his shoulder, furiously shaking her head when he turns to look at her. As one, they listen as the car door opens and closes, the engine starts, and the tires roll from driveway to road. Tension Stiles hadn't fully realized was even there eases as Deaton's car moves out of hearing range. 

Scott is immediately grabbing his shoulder and pulling him around. His hands are careful, strength obviously being pulled back hard, even as his voice is so tight Stiles wonders how he's managing to get words out. 

“Okay, whatever you didn't tell him? You need to share it with us, because I seriously thought you were going to have another panic attack right before the circle vanished. And I _trust_ Deaton, okay, and for a moment there, right when he was asking you what was going on in your head? I almost ordered you to not answer, and I _don't know why_.” 

Stiles lets himself fall into his brother's arms, shaking. Derek's crowding up behind him again, and he's terrified that his answer is going to cause the older man to flip the fuck out. He shoves his face into Scott's chest the way he used to hide under the blankets when he was four, because he knows, he knows _exactly_ what the next words out of his mouth are going to do to werewolf hovering at his back. 

“I could smell it, Scotty; I could _smell_ it burning. Derek touched it, and it was keeping him out, and I could smell it burning, and there was screaming, and he couldn't get through the circle, and it felt like being trapped,” He's starting to hyperventilate, and he knows it, and he can't stop it, “And I needed to get him _out_.” 

Derek is now firmly attached to his back, shaking and making high little distressed noises as he clings to Stiles. The pack converges as one into another pile, this time with Derek in the center. He loses track of time as they wrap around Derek, holding him, anchoring their packmate to them. Slowly, the tremors ease, even if his deathgrip on Stiles doesn't. When he starts talking, his voice has a shaky edge to it. 

“Laura and I . . . we always knew the fire wasn't an accident. M-mom, she, she could've gone through a wall, easy. The tunnels under the house would've been the last resort, and they were solid concrete. Nothing to catch fire; nothing to block them from getting out.” He buries his head under Stiles' chin, face planted firmly into his throat, and the subject matter is the only reason Stiles doesn't have a highly inappropriate reaction when Derek draws in a ragged breath. 

“We always knew the house had to have been ringed with mountain ash to keep them inside. I mean, we _knew_ , but we couldn't bring it to the cops, because there was no way to explain it to them. And if the house was ringed with mountain ash to keep them in, it had to be hunters, so we ran. And then, and then,” His voice starts to choke up, and the pack tightens around him. 

Stiles might not be able to smell chemo-signals, but right now he can feel the pack's pain warring with their anger, and rising above it all, their alpha's burning need to protect his beta. 

“And when Laura came back, she was talking about getting answers, about closure, and then Peter killed her and, and, and when he got me pinned down in the hospital, he showed me. He put his claws in my neck and he _showed me_.” 

He tilts his head slightly so he's not talking into Stiles' throat anymore. “I can handle it better now, but the first few months after that were hell. Anytime I had to deal with mountain ash . . . it was very close to what Stiles just described.” Derek shifts back slightly and cranes his neck so he can see Stiles' face. 

“But, that's _my_ reaction. And even during the Nogitsune, you've never been trapped by mountain ash. And if Peter had showed you those memories, we would've heard about it by now, because there's no way you wouldn't have told at least Scott about it. And I haven't shown those memories to anyone. So, what the hell _was_ that?”


End file.
